


Employee Benefits

by mimarie



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-10
Updated: 2006-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimarie/pseuds/mimarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Yeah. Yes - all right," I say, checking out the clothes again as he finally cracks a smile, and I know this is petty, considering, but I hope he's off duty right now, because if that's the dress code I'm seriously screwed. "Sounds like I've just come into the market for a new job, anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Employee Benefits

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Pre-series, contains references to plot points from Torchwood eps 1 - 3. Written after S1:03 aired; jossed accordingly.  
>  **beta:**[](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/profile)[ **aeshna_uk**](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/) \- anything peculiar remaining is entirely my own fault.  
>  The inevitable disclaimer: I own nothing but the happy space between my ears.

"So? What do you think?" he says.  
I'm trying not to, so I look at my whiskey instead. I know I ought to be concentrating on what he just said - I mean, it's not every day someone makes you an offer like that - but I'm still wondering where I've seen him before. It's annoying me, because I can't shake the feeling that I ought to know him, just like I ought to be able to remember where I left that pile of files last Tuesday-week, or the samples from the Andrews' case - not that anyone else seemed bothered about it.  
It's getting me nowhere, whatever, and I've got more important things to think about right now, like what I'm doing drinking with this bloke. I thought he was trying to pick me up to start with - wouldn't think I was his type, to look at the clothes, but you never know, and what the fuck any of this has got to do with him anyway?  
What I _do_ think, although I've got no intention of telling him this, is that it's a load of bollocks. The GMC wouldn't wear it for a minute. Trouble is, on the other hand, what I _know_ \- and I'm beginning to suspect he does too - is that that little fact's not going to make a blind bit of difference to the tight-arsed bastards on the hospital board.  
It's a pisser, though, all the same - I mean, whatever the stupid cow said, it's not like I was skiving off. I was stuck there with the dossers and the drunks; all the usual daft-bastard DIY-nuts electrocuting themselves with home-made bottle-opening wine racks and mains-powered sex toys - don't laugh, you have no idea some of the things I've had the forceps round on a Tuesday night - but they're not going to listen to me, are they? Seriously, can't they tell? I mean, really, who the hell turns out to A&E because they've got an itch they can't get at under a leg cast?  
With - and there's no need to look like that, you haven't heard the best bit - a freshly ripped Brazilian and no knickers. In Cardiff. In _January_. You can see where I'm going with this - right?  
I still haven't answered him, and he's beginning to look a bit pissed off, just a twitchy eyebrow, nothing much - I figure the bloke's not used to being kept waiting, either that or he's got somewhere else he wants to be. He catches my eye for a moment before he's looking around the bar again, skimming faces, arses, tits and the like. We're probably following the same tracks. I manage to drag my eyes off the gorgeous oriental bird and her friend - they are _so_ together: up close and personal, smiling over their drinks like they've got themselves a nice little secret, and I'm just starting to wonder if this bloke's got something going on there, because they're looking at him too - and seriously? if they're part of the induction package he can count me right in - then when I turn back to my drink he's staring straight at me.  
I can't tell if it's a come-on or a fuck-off, so I smile a bit, swallow another mouthful and nod. He's got the reports, my replies - my bloody _personnel_ files, line manager's recommendations, all that sort of thing - the signatures are genuine and the letterhead's the real thing too; how the hell he got hold of it all I've no idea, but I've got to believe him. And honestly, did he really think I was going to say no to this sort of pay rise?  
"Yeah. Yes - all right," I say, checking out the clothes again as he finally cracks a smile, and I know this is petty, considering, but I hope he's off duty right now, because if that's the dress code I'm seriously screwed. "Sounds like I've just come into the market for a new job, anyway."

*  
I've had worse first days.  
Not many - and I papered my loo with old P45s once, so I know what I'm talking about here - but there's something so spectacularly vulgar - yes, I did use the word, don't look at me like that - thoroughly unpleasant and purely... well, I'm not sure how to describe the mind of someone who'd do that to you on your first day.  
It wasn't the business with the memory: I've seen the place now, seen what goes on there and I might not like it but I can understand _that_. It was…  
Look, it wasn't _dead_ , all right? He said it was dead and told me to -  
I don't think I want to talk about this.

*  
It gets better.  
It pretty much had to. And I'm still here, after all, so...  
I'm playing to my strengths. Yeah, I know, it sounds a bit poncey, something you'd get told in counselling or life-skills training, all that sort of bollocks, but - I'm bloody good at what I do, and he knows it.  
There's a lot to take in here, and it's not until we're driving back from the Travel Inn, the black bags rustling in the back and the windows open because the air-conditioning might be good, but it's not _that_ good, and I'm thinking about the tests I need to do, whether I've scraped up enough of the residue to be able to force the reaction in the lab, and Jack asks me about the wounds: what kind of weapon could make that shape incision, can I tell if it was organic, is there any way of telling - and I realise.  
He's testing me, the bastard. See what he can chuck at the new boy - see how much I'll put up with. He wants to see how much I want this job, I think for a minute, and then we're back and working and it doesn't matter, because I'm thinking; working; my brain's ticking like I'm high on something other than Neapolitan pizza and coffee and the results are starting to make sense, I can see a pattern emerging and I've got a grin the size of the Bristol channel because this is just fucking _brilliant_. Whoever said there's no money for research any more should try working for Torchwood; no sponsors, no advertising - I think I might have died and gone to heaven. It's the same all over the Hub: Tosh is running the idents through, checking for any thing relevant in their medical histories; Suzie's making measurements, checking schematics, trying to persuade alien tech to interface with the computers and twisting Jack's arm to let her try using the glove we found at the scene - which he won't, ' _not before Owen's checked it out_ ' he says.  
I ought to thank that daft cow with the Brazilian and the broken leg, although I don't think she could ever appreciate what she did for me as much as I do. But there's an end even to this kind of alpha-wave-high, concentration starts to slip, figures blurring together - it's only reasonable, I suppose. The first reports came in at four - a.m., it's _always_ a.m., I obviously got lucky on this one, but I just don't have the karma to find a job that lets me lie in until the afternoon - and when I finally look at my watch it's just shy of three the next morning. It must have been a good night - even Suzie seems happy to go home at that point.  
Although Jack... The man must be living on Pro-Plus, because even as I'm out the door he comes after me. If it's more questions or another analysis, I don't care how solid that chin looks, I'm punching the bastard. But he just nods, claps me on the shoulder and grins at me. I was pretty sure my jaw was too sore from all the talking - writing reports verbally is so much quicker; bloody wonderful the computer system here - but I find a smile somewhere and he pats me again, shoving me pointedly towards the car -  
"Ianto's taking you home," he says, waving whatever I'm trying to mumble away. "You fall asleep behind the wheel and I'm back to trawling bars for shag-happy doctors." He winks at me. I might take offence at that - if I could remember where I left it.  
I'm not arguing - I haven't got the energy. Jack uncurls my fingers from where they're frozen round my keys, and Ianto takes me home.  
I sleep straight through until ten, and I'm in the shower before I'm awake, out the door in under twenty minutes - including a coffee and a crap. I don't think I've ever wanted to say this before, but _fuck_ I love my job.

*  
Another day over.  
He's sending the others off home; it's not that late, but it's been another long day anyway, with more to come tomorrow and he's chucking assignments out, left, right and centre. I'm just thinking it sounds like I've got off lightly - throw the newbie a bone an' all - "And Owen, you're with me," he says. Just like that.  
From the tone of voice, it sounds like he's expecting me to trail after him with my tail between my legs. Any other time I might be narked about it - Jack's got a way of making you feel like you've just pissed yourself in public when he puts his mind to it, but I know I haven't done anything wrong; today, at any rate. It's been a pretty good day, actually - found the right enzyme to stop the meta-toxin from multiplying, identified the carrier from the DNA samples, even managed to stop the bloody pterodactyl from shitting all over the place after it ate the sample I took from the first one Jack and Suzie dragged back. Okay, so neither of them were particularly happy about having to go out and catch another Weevil, but I got a grin from Tosh when they'd gone - one of the sideways ones she usually saves for Suzie. I figure that's got to be good, because there's something about those two, and even if they're not actually - do you call it shagging when it's two birds? I don't know, but I'd watch anyway - at it, whatever, then I'm pretty sure they only need a little encouragement.  
Besides, I like Tosh. She's just as gorgeous up close as she was across the pub that night, but you know - the better I get to know her, the more I realise she's just not my type. I mean, I'd still shag her, right, it's just that we'd probably end up talking about work, or something, and she'd want a lift in the next morning and then... it's not worth the hassle. Bloody hell. I think I must be getting old.  
Jack's getting impatient: like that's new - does the day have a 'y' in it? "Are you coming?" he says and vanishes in the direction of his office. I can't get out of it, whatever it is - haven't got the excuse that I'm still eating, there's no pizza left, so I balance the bottle on the box and dump the lot on my desk.  
Yeah - _my_ desk; _my_ work-station. No hot-desking here, no coming back to find someone's buried your files under a heap of x-rays and dog-eared case-notes. There's the minor problem of pterodactyl shit, of course, but that's no one's fault but whoever forgot to bin the last of the takeaway.  
Of course, when I say _my_ desk, if I fail to suggest that my chair was still warm when they showed me around the first time, then it's only so I can reference mayfly life-cycles instead. But the hastily-stuffed cardboard box I nearly stood on starts me thinking about the never-used mugs in the back of the cupboard, and how there's a bare patch on the board between Tosh's Chinese order and Suzie's favourite pizza topping - and then Jack hauls it out from under the desk. He snarls something like ' _archives_ ' and chucks it to his 'friend' in the suit (I tell you, I've got a whole new respect for euphemisms in the past week), who trots off with it like the thoroughly nice boy he is. No one should look so well-ironed at five on a January morning, let alone half-past eight on a Friday night. It's unnatural. Shame he's so easy going - makes a bloody good coffee, and all - or I'd be so tempted to rip the shit out of him. I guess I can leave that to Jack, one way or another - but I'm sure he makes it up to him.  
Anyway, I've been summoned, so off I go, following his master's voice like the good little ex-NHS employee that I am. This is a new bit of the hub for me, I haven't been down into the tunnel before. I've got to admit, I thought it was storage, all the hardboard and suchlike, but it's huge. You've got to wonder, haven't you, how the hell big this railway was - what they needed such a damn great tunnel for, let alone how they managed to build it under the city without anyone noticing -  
I stop in the doorway. There's a line of cut-outs, some familiar - like a couple of Weevils - and some more I hope I never have to meet; booths sliced from more hardboard with earmuffs and goggles hanging in each one; a load of warning lights, too; and then just in front to the booths... a table full of handguns and ammunition. Fuck. Wasn't expecting that one. Can't think why.  
"You need to know how to use these," he says, "I'd rather you didn't have to, but if you can't shoot straight then you're a liability; none of us can afford that." He's not talking about me now, that's obvious, not really looking at me either. I hate it when he does this; might as well be talking to himself for all the sense he's making, and so I walk over to the table and pick up a gun.  
No, I don't know what sort it was. It was black, not very shiny, looked like a gun. Hold one end and point the other. And really, it looks pretty simple, so -  
"What makes you think I can't?" I say, and I know maybe I shouldn't, but he's always so bloody full of himself. Anyway, it's not like I've _never_... All right, so maybe paintball's stretching it a bit far, and I _know_ a real gun's got to have more of a kick, but I'm not letting him know that's the only time I've been on the right end of one before.  
And before you ask, _you_ try keeping your doors open to the public 24-7, provide free transport and a bed for the night if they play 'guess the symptom' well enough, and see what wanders in. I've got nothing to apologise for; I dealt with the tossers, I figure it's only fair I get to enjoy the perks, too - and there'll always be weirdos, one way or another. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the worst I got was nearly-but-not-quite the sack for shagging a patient on a consulting room table.  
"Go on then," he says. "Show me your moves." He laughs, but he doesn't look funny, just the usual of hint of bored amusement as he's stuffing his hands in his pockets. He's waiting for me to fuck up, and I'm beginning to wish I'd said it out straight: yellow pellets, mate, that's what I've fired, shot a few trees, splattered the twats from admin and a nurse or two with fluorescent paint. Only then it's too late, I'm firing, and I don't care what he thinks any more. This is better than running around a forest in cammo gear. Even wearing the sad-bastard earmuffs he's given me, I can see why people do this: there's something seriously fucking horny about the way the thing kicks in my hand; just like the moment you flick your wrist, the last time - when everything tightens, and you know he's coming -  
I get the analogy, that's all I'm saying, okay? Anything else you want to read into it - gift horses, mouths? You can think about it if you want, but don't take too long: I'm having fun here - making the most of it, too, 'cos it never lasts.  
He lets me empty a whole clip into the cut-out before he speaks, and I'm beginning to feel pretty chuffed with myself - I'm better than I thought I'd be, good enough to shut him up, or so I'm thinking. "Your stance is off," he says. "You'll be fine as long as whatever you're trying to shoot is made of cardboard - either that or you're going for the Jackson Pollock effect - but if you want to hit anything else you need to get it right." Then there's a hand on my shoulder, a full clip under my nose. "Reload. Let's try that again. And don't be so damn stubborn, you're young; you can't know everything."  
He's what, coming up on forty? Maybe thirty-five in the right light - if you average out the face and body without counting his eyes, anyway. He's a patronising bastard, either way. Patronising bastard with a point, but that's… well, it's not the point is it?  
It stops being so much fun then. It's still pretty horny - can't deny it, wish I could, but who am I trying to fool? Even the way Jack's standing behind me to steady my hand feels better than it should. I mean, the bloke's obviously gay, right, and me, I'm - Well, me, you see... I haven't got what you could call a _problem_ with it, let's put it that way. Not with him, either - not even when he adjusts my posture with one hand on my stomach and the other on my arse. But it's just....  
Jack hasn't got any idea of personal space. No, that's not right. He _has_ got one; it's just not like anyone else's. It was one of the first things I noticed about him. Not that he's always hugging or air-kissing, or anything, but - I don't really know how to describe it. It's as if it's... _simpler_ than that; you know, in that effortlessly human way that means it's more complicated to explain than quantum theory, or the offside rule? And I just know if I point it out to him he'll give me one of those looks of his and start talking about categories again. I've already had the talk once, with Tosh grinning behind him, so don't think I'm going there. It's - no - _he's_ different, that's all. I'm not used to blokes being so - touchy-feely. Stupid phrase, I know, but it could've been coined for him, hands all over the place - just simple, efficient adjustments, little touches, leaning in to sight along my shoulder and breathing on my neck, gripping my wrist and one hip and adjusting -  
Look, I've been busy. Haven't been out so much, what with the old job and the new job and all that, and... It's been a while, all right?  
We've got to be done here soon, then I can get home - watch a DVD, you know. _De-stress_. Yeah, that's right, you're quick tonight, aren't you. Don't s'pose you're free later...? No? Oh well, your loss -  
It's just starting the new job - what do they say are the most traumatic experiences? Births, deaths and marriages? Don't imagine any of them have tried being thoroughly 'adjusted' by the boss of their alien-hunting, tech-scavenging, so-secret-that-the-act-doesn't-cover-it new job, somewhere that might, in another dimension, be the Batcave (don't laugh. I did - but not for long), eight stories under the heart of Cardiff, while - and don't forget this bit, it's fairly relevant - pointing a loaded handgun at a cutesie cardboard cut-out whose wrinkled and snarling original is locked in a cell not five minutes' walk away.  
Yeah. So if I tell you it's probably just a nervous reaction, you're going to believe me, aren't you? I wish you would, maybe you'd be able to convince that nice little thrill that's running places I don't need to think about, while I'm holding that - you got it - loaded handgun. Much as I'm not planning to screw up what might be the best job I've had since I graduated - possibly ever - I think I'd like shooting myself in the foot even less. Although it might be the same thing. _I_ don't know. I've got the horn, all right? I'm as stiff as a fucking board and my new boss - _new boss, that's it - think about it, the one who'll be signing the bank transfer forms at the end of the month_ \- has got his hand on my hip while he tries to educate the back of my neck about calibre and penetration.  
I concentrate on my credit card bill while we work through the table, one at a time, one on one, he's stepping back, then stepping closer again - still making as free as you like with the little readjustments, the touches and turns, chucking in the odd comment about the state of my arms. Yeah, I think he probably said arse too, but if _I_ heard arms, then my _bank statement_ heard arms - therefore he - _newbossnewboss_ \- said arms.  
Anyway, if there's something wrong with my arse, why's he getting so close to it?  
I'm not sure how to get out of this. I like this job, and I'd really rather not screw it up quite so predictably. Although... I know I'm saying 'get out of it,' but I'm not exactly sure what ' _it_ ' is to get out of. Apart from the fact that I've been counting the shirt buttons down my spine, Jack's not done anything to suggest this is more than just his way of being friendly-boss. Maybe he teaches everyone like this. Maybe it's another test, see how I react under pressure. Maybe...  
Hell - maybe he's shagged them all already. Part of the induction procedure - line up with one weapon and... Nah, that's a pun too far, especially right now.  
He shifts then, moving behind me. There's a ratchetty, clicking noise and he passes me something I never expected to be handling: that old revolver of his. "Try that," he says. "It's old but it's been well looked after. Does as good a job as any of the new models." I try not to smirk - I want to laugh, but if I do he'll want to know why - and wrap my hand around the body-warm grip. This has got to be the last one - it feels like we've been doing this for hours and it was a long day before we even started. I'm tuning out a little, starting to work through my DVDs in my head; I'm pretty sure one of them's got a bird in it who looks just like Tosh - I'll have to dig that out when I get home. It's not exactly the best quality, usual shite music and dialogue - but there's three of them, right? Three birds and - fuck, I don't know. It's porn, what do you expect?  
He doesn't guide me this time, just stands close. I can feel him watching me: if I wasn't wearing the oh-so-sexy, blue earmuffs I've got a feeling he'd be breathing in my ear, so I'm grateful for that at least, but it couldn't make it much worse. I can't handle this thing: the weight, the balance - it's all different. I almost manage to wing one of the _other_ targets, but that's as good as it gets. And I'm pissed off now, pissed off _and_ horny - which is just fucking great; maybe if I'm lucky there'll be an offie open on my way home, because I think I need a drink to go with my naked lesbians.  
I don't turn when he hands me the bullets, I just roll the chamber open, slide in the new rounds, roll it back in. Naked lesbians, I'm thinking; naked _Tosh_ , with two girlfriends - and maybe a whole bottle.  
"Now, this time, _concentrate_ ," he says, tugging me back against him; one hand settling on my shoulder and the other... Okay, I can talk about hands, they're safe, even the breath on my neck I can handle - so long as he doesn't get close enough to leave me with razor-burn anyway - but the cock that's pressing nice and hard into my left buttock? That's a little less easy to ignore.  
I swallow, then do it again, trying to work out where all that saliva went. Then I follow his lead, breathe slowly and hope that the shake in my hands is just that he's trusting me with his favourite weapon... Oh, dear god - I've died of innuendo. I can't shoot straight and I'm thinking in porn. This could go several ways: awkward, bloody awkward, or fucking awkward. Whatever - I'm fucked. Christ, even my epithet of choice is after me now.  
I should get out of here, go home, think about lesbians. I didn't take the job because I fancied the nice man in the poncey clothes, I like the _work_. I like the people I'm working with. I even like the bloke who's got his dick shoved up against my arse, for christ's sake - so tight in against me that if I shifted to adjust my stance...  
I did say quite how much I like this job, didn't I? There's been no person spec, no job description, no one's handed me the usual screed of wank about equal ops or how to file a grievance, nothing about sick pay or annual leave, or even a request for my bank details - which I'm not quite so chuffed about, but that's not really top of my list right now - and no employee handbook. Unless you count that introduction Ianto gave me the access codes for. And that - oddly enough, from what I've read of it, doesn't include a section on the expected Torchwood etiquette for broaching the topic of 'your place or mine' with your boss, whilst handling live ammunition or otherwise.  
Only - you know what? Fuck it. I can't take this much more, I've got to find out: is he trying it on, or just trying it on?  
Three things here, right. I move my hand - the one I'm not using to drill badly aimed holes in cardboard aliens - and then, nice and casual, I run it up over his thigh, trusting to luck and the hand he's using to guide me as I squeeze off another shot. That's two. And the third? That's his move. It's a breath; a deep, sudden breath - hot and wet on my neck, and then even through foam and plastic and the echoing silence as we contemplate the hole we've somehow managed, between us, to make through the Weevil's left eye, I can hear him.  
" _Fuck_ ," he says, and his grip gets a damn sight tighter.  
He can't think I've missed that - and besides, even with Tosh thrown in, the lesbians are getting me nowhere fast. "You know, if we're going to do this properly, we should really just get rid of the gun," I say, and I can feel him tense - which is interesting in a whole new way, and if I wasn't hard before, then I sure as hell am now. And I'm not alone in that. Which is... good.  
"You sure about that?" he says, and when I look at him - which involves turning my head about ten degrees and my eyes another twenty or so, because if he leaned a fraction of a fraction closer he'd be resting his chin on my shoulder - he's got that hungry look, the one that slowly works down from his eyes until you can almost see his mouth watering. It's the way Suzie gets over something exotic that we've got no idea about, and she's itching to play with it. Wanting to take it apart and see what makes it tick, to press all its buttons at once and see if it explodes. Only, _Jack's_ hungry look...? Starving coeliac in a bakery is about as close as I can get, and about as close as I want to. He's not interested in me - not in _me_. I'm not stupid or loved-up, I'm horny - _available_ \- it's a different matter entirely.  
"It's a bad idea," he says, eventually. "And anyway, I don't do that with the staff."  
Yeah, right, and he thinks I'll believe that little afterthought? So I stand a bit straighter, stick my arse out a bit more, let him know that I do have sensation from the waist down - and that I'm just as capable of independent movement in the pelvic area as he is - and he compensates automatically, shifting his stance behind me as I'm finding a new one of my own. He's pretty much got to: he's standing so close that if he doesn't, he'll either have to hang on or fall over. Then that knee that's been nudging me back into the right position isn't just nudging anymore, it's nice and snug between my thighs, and there's an arm round my waist -  
We're still holding the gun, right, one hand each, his over mine. Only, ' _grip it gently_ ' is taking on a whole new meaning, and I'd really rather not have to try and aim straight at the minute, because there's no way I'm controlling my breathing. The hand on my stomach has started on down - I can live with the noise in my chest because I can feel his heart doing the same through my back, only I've got to close my eyes so I can't see my T-shirt bunching as he strokes into the gap at the top of my jeans. I can feel it though; it's the only movement in the room. It's quiet, nothing but breathing after all the bangs and my pulse is too loud in my ears. I want to slip the stupid headphones off, but that would mean moving, might mean he'll stop what he's doing, and I really don't want that to happen, not now.  
"So," he says, "you think that's enough practice for one night?" And then I don't have to worry about the headphones, because they're on the floor; both sets, and the glasses. He steps back, turns me to face him, one hand on my shoulder, walking me backwards, stumbling backwards, until the wall's at my back and he's at my front and even though we're not touching now, he's a whole lot closer than he has been the rest of the evening.  
"Hey," he says, and he smiles.  
He must keep that face in his pocket, or something, because the bloke who's smiling at me now isn't someone I've met before, sure as fuck isn't the bloke I've been shooting with, working with - _working for_ \- my brain tries, but head number two keeps interrupting and I know which one I'm listening to.  
Besides, when was the last time your boss snogged you? No need to look like that - you go find yourself a boss worth snogging and get back to me on it, all right? But you can piss off, right now, 'cos I'm busy.  
He pulls back after, oh, I don't know, three-quarters of a lifetime? And he still looks hungry - hungrier - only now I think I've got ' _gluten-free_ ' stamped on my arse. "Nice to meet you, by the way," he says, "I'm Jack. Do you want to fuck?"  
I'm a doctor, right. Done research - pharmacology, worked in Medical, Surgical, Path., A&E - I've been as far round the block as I can. I've dealt with dead kids and parents - not literally, from the other end, you know what I mean? - rape victims, RTAs - the lot... what I'm getting at here is that I'm calm under pressure. It's part of the basic psyche, goes with the territory sort of thing. So it might just be professional pride, but I'm glad it's me that puts the gun on the table; nice and neat - Ianto would be so pleased with me.  
Only - maybe not, not really.

*  
I don't remember closing my eyes. I blink, and then again...  
I'm looking at a gun, up close, _too_ close - just a couple of inches away from my face. Something warm and wet is moving up my back and then there's a chuckle behind my ear. It's rough, a bit breathless - it's only fair, I suppose, he was doing most of the work there, but - "Bastard, that's not funny," I say, pushing the barrel away with one finger and extracting a couple of bullets from under my chest, best I can without having to unstick my cheek from the table top.  
"Can you stand up?" he says. He's not making it any easier by lying on top of me, I'm tempted to say, but I don't, because if I do that then he might get off. It's cold in here, all right? Nothing wrong with sharing a bit of body heat. Sound medical principle.  
"You think you're that good?" I say, shoving up a bit, but my arms are tired and I hang there, suspended like some sad git who can't manage a push-up, not - seriously, definitely - _not_ gasping as that same warm wetness slides back down my spine and round the angle of my tailbone.  
He pushes me flat then, back onto the table, face down among the scattered bullets and the few guns we haven't already managed to knock onto the floor. "Yeah, actually - I do," he says, and he might have said something else, but he's muffled suddenly. I'm more than a little incoherent myself - what with his tongue and that thing he's started doing with his hand and the sound of tired blood retracing its steps to my groin. So I'm just going to lay here for a minute, indulge him. Maybe just get my breath back and then -

*  
It's later. If I say significantly later, then you can infer the grin, okay?  
"I told you that was a really bad idea," he says, looking smugger than a naked man in a cold room has any right to. He leans back on the archway, holding my T-shirt out to me, only I can't take it off him for a minute because I'm still trying to work out how he managed to get my jeans off without touching my trainers. That isn't a complaint, you understand, the floor's got to be bloody cold down here. Not that Jack looks bothered, and he's got more reason to be cold than I have; I've still got my shoes on, after all.  
"Look," I say, hopping into the wall and then trying again - I'd rather not ruin my socks on the concrete, okay? The jeans came off, they'll go on again. "It's late. Why don't we get a drink or something?" ' _Maybe he'd like the lesbians, too,_ ' a voice in my head says, and I trust the cold to keep that thought from showing anywhere more incriminating before I manage to tug my jeans back up over my dignity.  
He snorts something that might be a laugh, flashing his dimples at me - it's about the only bit of him I haven't seen so far tonight - and bends over, casual as you like, scooping his trousers up off the floor. "I don't think so," he says, "like you said, it's late. You'll need to get some sleep - you don't want me keeping you awake all night. 'Sides," he grins, sharing the joke for the first time tonight, "do you really want to wake up next to the boss tomorrow morning?"  
It's not a question: he's right and he knows it. Life's too damn short for messing around with office romances - not that he's the sort I'd fall for anyway, even if I made a habit of it, which, just in case you're still wondering, I don't. He's either too needy or not enough - I can't decide which, not right now. I've got too many things going on in my head to start pondering stuff like that. Such as? Oh, randomly - is there a camera running down here? And if so, how early do I have to get in to stop Ianto posting the file around the hub? Is there any chance that there's still an off-licence open somewhere between here and my flat? Did I eat all that Chinese I'd got in the fridge, because I'm seriously hungry now - but mainly - ridiculously - I'm thinking 'thank fuck for that,' because that was fun - _shed-loads_ , and yeah, he's pretty good, but I don't want to get involved with the bloke. Because - I know it's the biggest cliché there is, but don't laugh - I'd rather respect him when I get to work in the morning. And I wouldn't, not if he followed me home like some affection-starved puppy.  
"I like you, Owen," he says, "you remind me of someone I used to know. Long time ago now, but..." He does that vague look of his and shrugs himself back into his shirt, bare-chested, ignoring the once-pristine white T-shirt on the floor. I hope for a distracted moment that he's not planning to leave that for Ianto to clean up, then he's talking again. "He turned out okay. Someone gave him a second chance - not that he was doing so bad with the first one, you understand. Combination of circumstances, and..." Shrugging again - boots on, belt and braces - he runs his hand back through his hair and looks at me. I know my hair's standing on end, and I'm pretty sure he's left a good few marks on my back, if not my neck, but I'm dressed, suited and booted and ready to face the world that is Cardiff Bay at - I throw a double-take at my watch that makes him chuckle - smug bastard, I think, not that I haven't got cause to be smug too, but he's right. I've got an early start - no earlier than him, but he's a big boy and... No, no puns, I'm going to have a sore arse as soon as my endorphin levels drop, and I'd really like to be well into that bottle before that happens - although at least I can sleep with the satisfaction of knowing I won't be the only one moving carefully tomorrow.  
"Go home," he says. It's a dismissal, but I don't need it. I'm already halfway there. "I want those readings analysed first thing. And then I'm going to need to talk to you about credit cards, overdrafts - we get that kind of crap sorted and you'll have more time to concentrate on the job. Right?"  
"Right," I say. Business as usual, that's good. And, seriously - who's going to disagree with an offer like that? "So, I'll be..." I gesture vaguely towards the door and he nods before turning back to the table. As I walk up the stairs I can hear a soft laugh and the rattle of metal and carbon fibre on the formica table-top.

*  
It's cold outside, the wind's trying to freeze the damp patch on my jeans into the crack of my arse, my legs ache from bending, kneeling, leaning, crouching - okay: _shagging_ \- my arms are tired and my eyes hurt. I've got bruises on my stomach and thighs from where my boss just screwed me into a table - and bite marks from when I returned the favour, with no complaints, thank you. I've got ten minutes to find an off-licence before they're all shut, and a lesbian that looks like Tosh is waiting for me with her two girlfriends. Tomorrow morning I've got to analyse some weird alien slime that smells like nothing I ever want to encounter again before I try and work out how it affects the human metabolic system, and I've got the headache from hell coming.  
 _Fuck_ I feel good.  
Did I tell you how much I love my job?  



End file.
